The 72nd Hunger Games
by Fractured-Moonlight-13
Summary: Violet Woods was always introverted. Being the poor kid in District 7 is never easy, yet she manages. But Violet's whole world gets turned upside down when she gets reaped for the 72nd annual Hunger Games...


**Hey so this is my THG story! I did everything I could to work around Suzanne Collins' story so that my characters don't interfere with the facts and numbers in her story.**

**I do not own The Hunger Games.**

**This chapter is mostly descriptions and stuff but there will be more action soon!**

**I hope you like it!**

**CHAPTER ONE**

Gray light spills into my room through the blinds. My eyelids are still heavy with sleep, but I know no more will come my way no matter how tightly I shut the blinds, no matter how long I let myself lie here. Not today.

I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face. It calms me. I don't linger in the mirror, but a quick glance lets me see the bags under my eyes. Sleep is always difficult this time of the year. More so for me than most other kids in District 7, but complaining about that will get me nowhere.

I quickly dress in my usual attire: simple shirt, cargo pants, boots, and my well-worn jacket. It's made of mossy green fabric material. It feels light without its inner lining. But it's practically summer so I have no use for it right now. I don't really need the jacket itself but it makes me feel safer somehow. As if a jacket could protect from what is to come today.

I tie my hair up before creeping out of the house. There is no need to take sleep away from my mother or my depressed aunt, especially taking into account how hard and emotionally- taxing today will be for them.

Today is reaping day here in the nation of Panem. Panem was what became of the place once known as North America, divided into 13 districts, each contributing a different good for the country. But there was an uprising, the Dark Days, when the districts rebelled against the pristine Capitol. But they were defeated, the thirteenth district was destroyed, and we were left with the punishment of the Hunger Games. 24 kids, one boy and one girl from each district, aged 12-18 are reaped from a bowl of names and sent to the Capitol as tributes to participate. They are cleaned up, fed, and basically trained before they are thrown into an arena to fight to the death until there is one tribute left. This all being televised and broadcasted for the people of Panem to enjoy, of course.

I live in the 7th district. We produce mainly lumber, but we have factories that make tree-based items, like paper, as well. I've never seen the few factories in person. They are supposedly placed in the west-central part of the district. I live in the most eastern corner of 7, which stretches across the northern part of the country. Fortunately, our little slightly run down town square where the reapings take place is near my home. There are nicer ones throughout the district since it has expanded and developed, but the first reaping took place in that square, and so the rest do. Some kids have to take a train to reach the square. As a result many of the parents are left behind to watch the horror unfold on the screens in their homes, as their children are picked and sent off to their death. I remember seeing a frail dark-haired woman being ushered into the Justice Building after one reaping. Her face was red, her eyes were puffy, and her wails could be heard ringing throughout the empty square. Her and her late husband's only son had been reaped and she had to take a train to the square in order to see him off. She was only left with barely a moment to say goodbye. I remember seeing the boy get shot out of a tree, screaming as he fell. The arrow had only hit his leg, but he hadn't managed a weapon. The District 1 girl had a smile on her face while she finished him off. He was 12.

I close the door gently behind me and creep around the side of the house. It is relatively small but quite cute, tucked away and surrounded by wood. Everything in District 7 is, but I live closer than anyone to the fence. It's obscured by trees from afar but it can't be more than a kilometer away. I am grateful for my location, under the looming trees and it's far enough away from the square to be quite peaceful.

I walk a few paces to an old warped tree. I scale it until I am about 10 ft up, then I reach down into the hollowed crook of two branches. My hands find the smooth curved surface of my bow. It seems like an unusual weapon for a girl from District 7, but it was easier to use for what I do. I crafted it myself. I sling it over my shoulder, along with a quiver of arrows, and start my trek towards the fence.

Sometimes I go barefoot and let the little green sprouts brush against my toes until the brush gets too thick. I can recognize most of them. Every few feet there's usually a maple sapling, and the path is dotted with shoots of golden rod and buckthorn. I pass by bushels of raspberries and I pop a few in my mouth. I read about plants in the books at home. It's important I know them if I'm to wander around in the brush. I remember a close encounter I had with a three-leafed plant called poison ivy. The oils cause harsh rashes.

When I reach the fence I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and listen carefully. The hum of electricity fills the air. The barbed fence is electrified 24/7. I've always found it fascinating. Why go through so much trouble to keep us in? What is out there? Why does the Capitol care if people run away, they'll surely die off on their own in the wild. They kill 23 children each year, what do they care about extra casualties? I don't really know. I've been out on a rare occasion, maybe 5 or 6 times in total, when I feel brave enough to risk crawling under the high-voltage fence. There is only one noticeable bend in the fence, at the bottom. It leaves a gap a little under 2 ft deep which I've gone through. I wonder how it got there, why they hadn't fixed it, if they know, what got in, or who got out? I'll never know.

Today I choose to go under as I do on reaping days. It creates a last chance of freedom, just in case the worst happens. I wonder what would happen in other districts if they'd caught a citizen doing what I am. I would be shot on site, or executed publically. It's such a horrible consequence. I don't know why I do it. Why not stay in the brush? There are just as many animals there, and far fewer threats. I think I do it in spite of the Capitol, but doing things for that reason is not a good habit to get into.

I take a deep breath, lying back-down on the ground, and begin to push myself under head-first. The electric buzz grows louder as I move under, it's a terrifying rush. Nevertheless I clear the fence, stand up, and brush myself off. For a fleeting moment I have a fear in the pit of my stomach, that I won't be able to make it back through. But maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

The forest is my true home. I spend all my free time in it. The trees carry the wind, rustling to form a beautiful melody that nothing could ever recreate. Maybe I hate my district's industry a little. How could you ever cut down something so magnificent? I don't work as a lumberjack. Yes, I've been taught to throw an axe around ever since I could walk, but I opted out of that specific job. The children of District 7 have scheduled work days where they take shifts after school, sometimes at different jobs. I work in the tree nursery mainly, planting and caring for saplings, but I also chop up excess branches that are then easier to transport. They're used for things like the paper mills and fire wood. Otherwise I work my own little carving business as well. But today, all school and work is cancelled and I am grateful.

I climb up a tree until I find a study branch to sit on. Almost every child of District 7 knows how to climb a tree. They encircle and clutter our huge district, so they've become something like a natural playground. In District 7, you're pretty much climbing a tree or chopping it down.

I let my legs dangle, quietly humming and fiddling with my knife as I wait for an animal to pass. I cut a chunk of wood off the tree and put it in my pocket, it'll be good for carving. I mumble the words to the songs I'm humming. I don't care if I scare animals away with my voice. I'm not entirely dependent on them. I wouldn't call it hunting. I just occasionally shoot rabbits or birds, to eat or to trade with. I've heard distant rumours of actual beyond-the-fence hunting in other districts. I don't know where the rumours come from, or how they travel all the way to my district, but I've heard them. I'm unsure of my opinion on their validity. My hunting started when my father died. I was 10 and there was an incident in the lumber woods. He and two other members of his crew were crushed by a fallen tree. One of his crew members was my aunt's fiancé, hence her depression outward from that day. I was at school when it happened.

We were of average wealth at the time. But without my father's income, my mother's clothing business and occasional factory shift could not sustain us well. She used to have fits of rage and sadness, sometimes about my father, sometimes about herself for not working full-time in the lumber industry. She'd scream that she was weak for not choosing the high-paying laborious work. That we were going to run out of money and food and die on the street. All this while my young aunt moved in and locked herself up in her room, away from humanity. She stopped showing up for her work. The fits faded over time and she'd started taking more factory shifts, but even now, 5 years later, I can't help but approach her like a wounded animal, unsure if she will suddenly jerk into aggression. I don't think she will ever forget my face during her rants. At first I would say nothing, I would cry and be afraid, but what more could a 10-year-old do? Then I began trying to calm her or even argue over how she was being foolish. She'd hit me once. Right across the face when I'd tried reasoning with her and I ran out of the house and into the brush while she shouted for me to come back; that she was sorry. It'd almost been a year since the accident. She had been doing better, having not had a fit in so long. I'd huddled up against an oak and cried. We'd once been such a happy fortunate family. My father was the leader of his crew and had made good money. He'd bring home treats at the end of each week. Fancy juice made of fruits I'd never heard of, warm liquid chocolate, or a decadent pastry that tasted heavy with butter that would crumble in your hands. But he was humble, never prideful, and I was so grateful for that. But he was gone, and so was my kind mother, my joyful aunt, and my childhood. Needless to say I grew up pretty quickly, being surrounded by screams and a ghost of a person. You'd think the grief would've faded after a few months, but the effects just seemed to drag on.

My cries by the oak tree had turned to whimpers and my stomach was aching with hunger when I saw the little rabbit hop by. I'd seen thousands but that autumn day, for the first time in my life, it'd made my mouth water. It took me a long time to convince myself to do it, but I sometimes grow impulsive in daring situations so I took the knife that I always carried with me (yes, I carry a knife around and I have since my father showed me how to use it. I'm a carver, it just feels natural), out of its special pocket in my jacket and I threw it. The rabbit must have predicted my move and it lurched forward, my knife just catching its tail. I quickly retrieved it and threw again: a direct hit. All the blood nearly made me sick. I'd never imagined that there would be so much.

I waited until it stopped twitching before picking it up by the leg and dragging it home. My mother was nothing but a silent heap, leaning against the doorway. So I stepped passed her, dropped the dead rabbit on the table, disregarding sanitation, and stalked up the stairs to my room. By the time I came down hours later, the house smelled like stew. I saw that my mother had skinned, cleaned, and was in the process of cooking the animal. We had not bought meat for weeks in trying to preserve our money. My mother's tantrums always drew away my appetite, so it would often fall back upon me like a ton of bricks. I was starving. It was a turning point for us.

I didn't tend to my aunt, I made sure she could smell the rabbit stew so she had no choice but to come down the stairs and sit with us at the table. Even in horrible grief, hunger returns.

My mother took me, weeping, into her embrace afterward and apologized. Part of me hated forgiving her, but I was 11 years old, and I'd just murdered a bunny, and I'd lost my father. From then on, every so often I would wander through the brush finding rabbits, various birds, or ducks in a pond, inching closer to the fence each time. It also began to take less time to convince myself to kill an animal. We didn't completely depend on this, but it did make a difference in our household. I'd crafted myself a bow, only because I figured it'd be more useful for hunting than my knife and more subtle than axes, plus some deranged part of me always wanted to try one out. I wasn't bad with one, although I scolded myself for being so desensitized to the weaponry from the Games. They were the only reason I knew what a bow was.

Some of my kills were kept and eaten and some were traded in the town market. People knew where my house was situated so no one asked where I'd gotten the animals and when they did I told them I'd started a little farm with a colony of rabbits I'd found by my house. The Peacekeepers gave me quite a bit of grief. I had to build a little fence and capture some rabbits so that they would believe it. Plus, I was fined for not registering my "farm." As for the birds and ducks, I'd make up numbers of excuses, most pertaining to them intruding on my farm. One stern curious look from the Head Peacekeeper, Gray, and although it often seemed impossible, I was okayed. I think part of it was because I was a little kid. Gray was rather laidback, very different from the strict ones in the nearby lumberyards. Even now, I try to keep the birds and ducks on the down-low, but still it was a miracle any Peacekeeper let me by.

From my tree, I hear an off-beat rustle in nature's melody. I load my bow, ready for game, and I see the rabbit. It's big and meaty, sure to make a great meal with some carrots and beets. I make a mental note to get some when I go into town. I carefully position the shot and take it, hitting the animal in the back of the head. I still wince whenever I make a kill. I don't kill the rabbits in my farm because then I'd have to constantly collect new ones.

I climb down and pull out the arrow. It's strange that I enjoy making arrows. I like smashing rocks to make the heads, I like attaching the feathers on the end for balance. Balancing the shaft itself, however, is tedious. I pick up the rabbit and carry it with me as I re-approach the fence, deciding it's about time to head back in order to make it for the 2 o'clock reaping. I silently curse myself for forgetting to bring a bag. I toss the rabbit, my bow, and quiver under the fence, then fold myself down and follow.

I try to take everything about the woods in, so I can hold onto something this afternoon. I feel the wind on my face, brushing my fingers. I feel the warmth of the sun, who is peeking its head out from behind a cloud. I listen to nature's song and smell the overwhelming freshness in the air. I pluck a single raspberry from the bush and am about to pop it in my mouth when I hear it. An animal maybe? No, a footstep. _Footsteps._

Who has found me? A Peacekeeper? Surely they will see that my rabbits don't come from my phony farm. No person is to be armed with anything other than an axe or a knife meant solely for lumbering. What punishment will I receive for my bow? Without really thinking, I throw my bow, quiver, and the rabbit in a bush and duck down. When the wanderer comes into sight, I see it is not a Peacekeeper and some of the tension leaves my body. But the question lingers, who could it be? No one just casually strolls through this wild brush, especially not this close to the fence. I do, mainly because I like the seclusion of these woods, and also because it is practically my backyard. For walks in the woods, people go through the main district forest, the one that is left untouched by lumberjacks so as to keep up the theme of our tree-covered home. What is someone doing all the way out here?

I squint to see if I can recognize the stranger, but I don't have very good eyesight, something I despise. From this distance, I can only tell that he is male. Slowly he edges closer, making no effort to keep quiet. In fact, he is kicking up the decomposing leaves in his path. If this was any other day, and I was looking for game, I would've been very ticked off.

Suddenly it hits me, like a jolt of lightning. This roamer is just a boy, well a teenager, and I recognize him. _I know him. _What should I do? Continue to hide here, hoping he doesn't walk into or notice me? If he did stumble across me hiding in a bush, that could be very awkward. Do I dare stand and run away? I cannot so much show him my weapon as I can leave it here with my dinner.

Often times when I find myself in these quick-decision situations, I tend to just jump into a decision and go with it. Not too often, but maybe often enough. Without fully thinking through the consequences, I bolt up. The boy hears this and nearly jumps out of his skin.

He is _Hunter Reyes_. He is one year above me in school. I actually used to be friends with him, until I diverted to lonesomeness. As I got older, I preferred to keep to myself. There isn't really a significant reason why. Maybe I just got sick of pointless tiresome conversations about people or comedic instances, which aren't really that funny. Or the disloyalty of friends that I'd experienced far too often. I especially disliked when people would go on about the new objects they'd bought, as if ever-looming hunger wasn't enough of a reminder of my decreased wealth. District 7 is middle-class in terms of wealth, nowhere near as wealthy as District 1 and nowhere near as poor as District 12, but of course I am not a part of our majority. My stomach, although fed, is never full. Always emptier than my classmates, and I hate it.

Hunter and I lock eyes. I remember his eyes well. Hazel. They seem brown but with hints of green. I remember so well for a reason... I used to _like_ him. _Used to._

"Violet?" he says, stunned.

My lips are trying to form something to say, some way to talk myself out of this, a way to get depart with my bow and rabbit in peace. But they don't. I really just want to leave this strange moment so without really thinking I grab my things, hiding them behind me best I can, and take off back home. It's quite an impulsive move, but I try not to linger on it. Maybe I would've engaged in conversation with Hunter, had I not been illegally hunting.

As curious and tempted as I am, I don't look back.

I return my bow and quiver to the old warped tree and stop by home, only quickly, to drop off the chunk of wood and the game my mother was expecting, and also to grab some money. Then I venture to the town market and buy the carrots and beets I had planned to from my friends' fruit and vegetable stand: _R&R_. They are an older couple. He has scars from a lifetime of lumbering and she's got a horrible cough from working in transportation and in the factories. But they seem happy. It's strange, to be happy living in a world like this. Their children and grandchildren have all survived their reapings, so I guess they do have something to be happy about.

They've always charged me unreasonably low prices, and for that I am very appreciative of them.

"Good luck today, little girl." The old man, Rufus, says to me as he hands back my change. He always addresses me like this, either "little girl" or "flower girl" because of my name. His wife scolds him saying, "She has a name!" but for some odd un- Violet like reason I've never minded.

"Thank you." I say. The woman, Ruth, discreetly slips another carrot into the sac in my hand, and gives me a small sorrowful smile. She knows how many times my name is in that bowl.

I take tessera, where I receive a year's worth of grain and oil for each member of my family in exchange for putting my name in the reaping bowl more times. My district is ranked 6/12 in our tesserae claims. I am part of that statistic. My name is put in 3 more times than most other kids: twice for myself, once for my mother, and once for my aunt. These accumulate so this year I have 16 entries.

I whisper a thank you to Ruth and head home.

Maybe I would've over thought my run-in with my old friend. Maybe I would've been angered by a wanderer in my part of the woods. Maybe I would've made jokes with Rufus over his funny nicknames for me. Maybe I would've politely argued with Ruth over giving me extra food, considering the low prices she already gives me. Maybe I would've done any number of things, just not today.


End file.
